


thanks

by counterheist



Series: heistverse [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, M/M, Mafia AU, spain swears to dnrkcc hee isnooot fffukjccc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/pseuds/counterheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his nights off, Antonio goes out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thanks

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to the Heist fic. Written for a [30 day drabble challenge on tumblr](http://counterheist.tumblr.com/post/27170371996/30-day-drabble-challenge-day-16).

Once every ten days, one of the other guys came to the corner and nodded to signal to Antonio that his shift was over. Antonio could never decide if he liked these days or not; on the one hand, all the staring he did all day, every day, couldn’t be good for his eyes. Already he felt the strain when he tried to read in dim lighting. But on the other hand, Antonio liked staring at Lovino all day, so the point was really moot. He would take glasses if that meant he got to be nearer, or, er… When Antonio began waxing that poetic, he knew he had to let off some steam.  
  
Mister Romolo considered Antonio’s nights off a treasured gift, and expected to get reports back on Antonio’s virility, and whether he’d tried that new position yet, or that one, you know I invented this one, my boy. These discussions, which took place right before Antonio had to go on shift, made Antonio really uncomfortable. But he never said anything about it, because making people uncomfortable was just Mister Romolo’s way. And besides, Mister Romolo always took it at face value when Antonio said he couldn’t remember what he had done the day before, and Antonio really appreciated it.  
  
In his heart of hearts, Mister Romolo was a really charitable guy.  
  
In his heart of hearts, Antonio was a very sloppy drunk, and according to his contacts in the bars around his apartment, he spent most of his time away from watching Lovino getting very drunk, very fast, crying, and in general making people really uncomfortable. And then he really did forget almost everything in the morning and was sinfully cheerful while everybody else who had had a third as much to drink were still on the floor, certain they were dying. If the other guys knew, they might hit Antonio on the back and congratulate him for following in the Boss’s footsteps. Or they might try to beat him up for the crying, but probably not. Maybe?  
  
Antonio didn’t know, because Antonio was already drunk.  
  
“And I just…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I just…”  
  
“Get it out.”  
  
“So. _Much_.” Antonio folded his head onto his bent arm, because his head felt grey and he couldn’t handle gravity without the help of the bar. He hoped the bar didn’t betray him like his big stupid mouth had, although he wasn’t really sworn to secrecy, and the bar wasn’t sworn to protect Antonio from the floor, so maybe no betrayal had happened anywhere, and Antonio was just an idiot. Oh God. _He’d called Antonio an idiot once_. “S-so much.”  
  
“So much what?” somebody said. Then a hand started rubbing circles on Antonio’s back, which was nice, so Antonio forgot what was going on again and tried to focus on the better times. Once, when he’d gotten a shipment of flour, the supplier had forgotten to charge Lovino full price, and his eyes had looked so… so… _good_.  
  
“I…”  
  
“Spit it out, already,” the voice said. If Antonio hadn’t been drinking for seven hours, he would probably have found the voice familiar. He knew everybody in the area, so that didn’t mean much, but he didn’t know quite so many people who would rub his back and listen to him attempt to say really poetic things about the love of his life while incredibly shitfaced drunk. Do you get to call them the love of your life if you haven’t said much, and you’ve been employed by a family member to essentially stalk them? Him? Antonio didn’t know. Antonio didn’t know how he was still in his chair. Antonio didn’t know what chairs were.  
  
“His… eyes,” Antonio sighed, if a slurred gurgle could be called a sigh, “ _eyes_ …”  
  
“You’re done.”  
  
Before Antonio could protest, or remember what the words meant, and translate them in his head from Italian, to French, to English, to Romansh, to Spanish ( _as was his way when he was too drunk for the word ‘chair’ to automatically assign itself a meaning_ ), the hand on his back went away. He would have said, ‘no, come back,’ but that would have taken too many syllables all at once, and he was too busy pining, and changing emotional tracks was really hard when you’d had a lot to drink. And Antonio had had a lot to drink. The little part of his soul that was still sober kind of wished he hadn’t had so much to drink this time. That part wasn’t his liver, surprisingly, but his internal accounts manager. Drinking your sorrows away was expensive.  
  
Antonio tried to communicate this to the person dragging him out of his chair, but then he got distracted by something soft and good-smelling in his mouth.  
  
That something was hair, the hair of the person who had listened to Antonio talk, and then sigh, and then pout, and then whimper drunkenly for hours and hours. That person was the person who had paid for all of Antonio’s drinks with the card he had stolen from Antonio’s pocket five minutes after sliding into the seat next to Antonio at the bar. That person was the person who had been annoyed enough to find that Antonio had only taken his debit card with him, and had had to weasel Antonio’s PIN out of him while Antonio was still muttering about eyes. That person found Antonio a very large pain in the ass almost all the time.  
  
That person carried Antonio back to Antonio’s apartment, even though Antonio was as heavy as fuck, and kept slobbering in that person’s hair, and snuffling, and saying things like, “Lovi… smells, _mmmmm_ , Lovi…” If Antonio hadn’t been so wasted, and maybe for some other reasons, that person would have left Antonio in a ditch for messing with his goddamn hair like that. You just don’t touch a man’s hair.  
  
That person carried Antonio’s fat ass up to the fifth floor of Antonio’s building, fished around in Antonio’s front pocket for Antonio’s keys, accidentally felt up Antonio’s thigh on total accident, and shoved Antonio’s door open with his shoulder. That person dumped Antonio on his bed, set a glass of water and some pills on his bedside table, and adjusted his disguise before walking out again.  
  
At the door, that person whispered, “See you tomorrow, dumbass.”  
  
In the morning, Antonio didn’t remember a thing besides the vague urge to thank someone.


End file.
